


Bei Mir Bist Du Schön

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock 2
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Blood Drinking, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, False Memories, Flashbacks, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Guns, Holocaust Mention, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, It's not so bad I'm just being thorough, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Blood, OMG these tags are awful, Paranoia, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rapture (Bioshock), Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, To Be Edited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: Brigid Tenenbaum has put the worst of Rapture behind her. That's the good news. The bad news is that a part of it is now standing on her porch, blood-smeared and wide eyed.





	1. I

The Sister has never smelled pine trees before.

The scent is thick yet pleasant, fallen needles making a yielding carpet that sink slightly around the Sister's heavy boots. Moving silently, the figure stumbles over a root, gloved fingers digging into a trunk for support. From a distance the figure looks almost entirely alien in the smoky moonlight with an outsized head and spindly limbs, but when it stills and bends down to grab experimental fistfuls of soil, the motions are unmistakably human, tempered by the swivel of joints and punctuated by the expansion of lungs. It watches the cloying brown and green crumble of the topsoil under its touch, gradually fanning its fingers and letting the dirt fall back to the ground. Overhead a bird caws, cutting a pale shadow across the forest floor and the figure is freed from its reverie, exploding into motion. Plunging deeper into the gloom of the trees, the Sister kicks up tiny clouds of grit with its heels- wispy puffs of dirt that glow with moonlight before winking out again; a supernova in miniature.

* * *

 

Brigid Tenenbaum does not dream.

She used to, when she was younger- before the little sisters, before the camps, before the rhythmic pounding of goose stepping come make her vomit from fear. Now when she goes to bed she sleeps lightly- a twitchy, restless thing. It is still, however, preferable to the insomnia and night terrors of before.She's made her peace with the fact; she's even fallen into taken advantage of the dreamlessness- watching tv or reading novels before bed without the fear of nightmares. Which is why, when she pads into the kitchen one morning to find an intruder crouching on the table, she already knows she's not still asleep. The house is still mostly dark with faint fingers of dawn easing across the sky, but the dimness is more than enough to make out a the arch of a spine, the slope of a shoulder, the graceful curve of a wrist. The Big Sister is looking towards the open front door, distracted by something among the trees. She's so still Brigid is reminded of a preserved wild animal- a predator encased in resin. Weak sunlight pushing through the curtains highlights the dust motes swirling in the air, making the scene even more frozen in time, more like a single frame- and even in the dimness, she can see the needle, almost feel it- that thin blade of titanium, almost as alive as the child wielding it. How many lives has it siphoned from still-warm flesh, stolen in stabs and slashes?

She does not remember asking if she will be next, but the answer comes to her anyway.

Fear threads through her veins at the thought, as intimate as an old love. At this range she can smell it- smell her. She knows that smell, better then she knows herself, and when she realizes how thick air is with it her lungs burn. It is the smell of blood and saltwater, rust and decay and rot- the smell of Rapture. The stench grabs her in a vice, threatens to push her down under miles and miles of ugly memories, but she bites her lip until she feels it bleed to clear her head. The blood flows soundlessly over her bottom lip, a reminder- gentle in the most painful way.

 _Move_ , some part of her murmurs, desperate in its softness. _Run_. Deep in the tissues of her hindbrain, she's in agreement, but some invisible force has arrested her body and she stands there, a deer in the headlights.

Unarmed and unresisting, Brigid Tenenbaum closed her eyes and calmly prepared to die.

Nothing happened. She waited for pain to flood her senses, to gag on her own blood or hear her bones break, but all was silent save for the quiet sounds of breathing. Before curiosity could open her eyes again, a sharp odor interrupted her senses- a smell of blood, rot, and saltwater, tinged faintly with dried sweat. Uncomprehending, she opened her eyes and blinked rapidly as she saw what was before her- the Big Sister was leaning in, apparently as transfixed as she was. Long fingers gripped the chair as the girl breathed in slowly, so close that Brigid could see her own shell-shocked expression in the grimy helmet porthole. She couldn't tell how long they both stood there, unmoving, but at this distance she couldn't help but notice the details on the figure: the overlapping layers of dried blood, the scuffed leather on the knuckles of the gloves, and even the childish doodles lining the tank. Though she couldn't her move her own eyes, she could feel the other’s on her, probing her with an intensity she wanted to run from.

A soft clanking caught her attention, almost by accident; she’d picked up the sound and tried to ignore it, instinctively. She had been so intent on staying alive for longer, to stay balanced on this precarious peak of a truce for as long as possible, that she had shut the noise out before realizing its source. The Big Sister’s armor is _rattling_.

Brigid’s understanding comes to her in waves; the motions are coming from the wearer, not the clothing. The girl beneath them is trembling like a wire, hard enough that the buckles on her arms and legs chatter like biting teeth. It’s an unsettling display, like water on the shore receding before a tsunami and hints at the catastrophe just below the surface. Brigid swallows, the muscles in her throat fluttering nervously. A half formed sentence squeezes out of her mouth, and even she is unsure what she means to say.

"Mädchen, ich-”

In a thundering retort of weighted boots, the Big Sister retreats, twisting out of reach so quickly Brigid almost misses the motion. The last part of the girl she sees is the heel of a grimy boot, almost transparent with speed, like that of a passing ghost.

* * *

 

She doesn’t know what to do with herself, after that. Tradition dictated that she would make coffee, eggs, toast- but the idea alone made her already cramping stomach come dangerously close to spilling over. Almost blindly, she stumbled to the front door which still hung open into the darkness, moving slightly with the wind. The locks (of which there were many) made a satisfyingly heavy clunk as she reset them- each one, it seemed, promising her a bit more safety from the world outside. When the last bolt was pulled and lock secured, a wave of indecision seized her, and she stood there feeling utterly lost- painfully aware of the sweat that had formed on her, coating her face and neck in sheets of ice, and the way the room seemed to swim at the edges as the worst of the adrenaline receded, leaving her weak-kneed. Crushing handfuls of her nightgown in both fists, she slid down the wall until she was on the floor, swallowing the wild noises that threatened to burst from her mouth. The dawn was utterly silent as she allowed a few tears to squeeze free, leaving wet smears down her face. She was so tired.

Briefly, when she’d almost caught her breath, she’d wiped her eyes and wondered for the millionth time when her ordeal would end — if, indeed, it ever would.

Nothing much happened for the next two days.

She spent that time in a parody of a schedule: waking to eat and do chores, tending her tiny garden, half-heartedly flicking through her collection of old novels. The air in the house seemed to have thickened invisibly: even the hands of the clock were burdened, moving slower then Brigid could ever have believed. Time sat heavy on her, too- or maybe that was the sleeplessness of the night before, crushing down on her like lead bricks. The encounter had gutted her emotionally- she'd been afraid to look at her hands since then, terrified what she might see. Would she be the victim again, sixteen in striped pyjamas? Or would she be the monster, once more, cruel scalpel ready? She does not want to know.

(She thinks she might, already. She is both.)

A sudden, vicious heave threatened her breakfast at the thought, but she forced her stomach to settle and instead focused on the noise pouring through the receiver. Desperate for a listening ear, she’d called the only person she could: Jack, miles away.

“...Brigid? Hello? Hello?” Jack sounded concerned, even through the scratchy reception, and Tenenbaum jerked her head away from the sound, startled into motion. She had entirely missed him answering the phone.

“I am here.” She mumbled into the phone, shaken by how weak her voice sounded.

“I apologize for not responding, but...” a sigh burst out of her, surprisingly heavy for the air it was. “Someone was here.”

“ Someone.” Jack repeated quietly. The word was thick with implication.

“Yes.” The word felt like an apology as she spoke it slowly into the phone, already expecting his next question.

“They were from... the c-city?”

“I... yes.”

“Come over?” Jack offered softly. He sounded stressed, and Tenenbaum felt a sting of guilt at the strain in his voice. His sentences were becoming choppier; she knew from experience that if he felt any more threatened he'd fall silent entirely- a turtle into his shell, metaphorically speaking. It was a stress reaction, as she'd learned from experience. It had taken weeks for him to speak after they'd both finally escaped Rapture, and the first time he did, the deep voice that came from his mouth had startled her so badly she'd dropped her lit cigarette into her lap, burning her skirt.

“I...” she stopped speaking to hear a squeaky girls voice burst onto the other end, tinny yet still obviously young. “I’m hungry, Jack!” “Me too!” Another little voice chimed in, giggling. Listening to the exchange made Brigid smile; this was what she owed these children, not another round of fear and trauma from Rapture. Hearing them safe and happy had made up her mind, and when Jack finished speaking with the girls she cooly picked up the slack in the conversation.

“Perhaps this is... not the best idea, schnucki. You and the girls sound so happy. I have brought enough trouble on you both, yes? Do not worry; I will be fine.”

(When she was 10, her mother had told her with unshakable certainty that there was no such thing as a good lie. She’d believed it, then- now, she wonders if there aren't exceptions to the rule.)

After a few more minutes of conversation, she gingerly placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at it motionlessly, quietly wondering if she had just signed her own death warrant.

Part of her, a tiny selfish whisper in her ear, was screaming for her to hide- It would work, the same part of her argued. You’ve packed. A suitcase, unaware of the turmoil it causing, was tucked into a neat corner of the shoe closet, beneath winter parkas and sweaters and dresses. Brigid had had it there for years, packed for the most difficult trip possible: sets of clothes, a tent, emergency money alongside ID cards and food. Ever since she had left... there, no amount of emergency provisions had seemed like enough. But she dismissed the suggestions, like a mother shushing a particularly rowdy child. The threat she’d faced -was facing- was her own making, and she was determined to handle it: lay in the bed she’d made, or something like that. She’d never had an ear for American slang. Finally noticing the lateness of the hour, she forced herself to head to bed- only, her legs refused to leave the floor, as rigid and unyielding as logs. Instead, even though her body hummed with exhaustion, she pulled open the bottom drawer and pulled out its contents, placing the lone item on the surface. It was an abacus- old, with large patches of smoothness where her fingers had rubbed the paint off from use. Gently, she curled her hand over the beads, sighing as the familiar texture pressed into her palm, rolling against the skin. It felt welcoming and safe, and helped ease the tension coiled around her neck like a snake. One hand held the base as she counted the individual pieces, over and over, until her eyelids drooped, the action making it harder to keep awake. Then she stood up, still cradling the abacus in one arm, and made her way to bed.

Overhead, the moon was full and white and wide; an eye staring out from the heavens.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, Brigid found herself startling awake- the sky was utterly dark, and the bed forgivingly warm, but she couldn’t sleep. Something like hysteria was rising from deep inside her, bringing with it a hot pricking of sweat to her face. Silently, she pulled herself free of the sheets, the only sound in the room being the noise of her bare feet on the hard wood. Twisting the material of her nightgown in one hand, she took a few steps towards the doorway of the bedroom, already feeling painfully vulnerable. A mixture of curiosity and fear had started to swell in her throat, rising like dough- and to make matter worse her heart _itself_ felt indecisive. It seemed to alternate between twitching rabbit fast and hard slow beats, so deep and powerful Brigid wondered if someone outside could hear it.  Behind the terror and curiosity, however, she was confused- the night was still and the small house quiet, but her body was still as tense as a live wire. Instead, tremors rolled down her shoulders and spread into her arms.

The air felt heavier then it did earlier, crushing- A bigger house had been set on the roof and was imperceptibly pushing her into the ground. Like a ghost, she soundlessly crept through the hall towards the living room. Everything seemed threatening; the furniture in the dark morphed into looming figures, the hallway stretched into a hungry throat, and the wind outside was the monstrous exhalation of the Devil himself. She bumped into the end table and nearly screamed at the impact; she had somehow missed it squatting in the shadows.

Shaking her head to clear her mind, she tiptoed into the living room. The slanting shadows made the room an unfamiliar landscape, but as she stood there with the adrenaline finally leaving her system, a feeling of disbelief hit her. Was she _really_ creeping around in the dark, clad in only a nightgown?

(It had been a long time since the liquefaction of the ghettos, or even the New Year's attacks. She didn't need to do this anymore.)

Scoffing, she hitched up the falling strap of her nightgown and pushed her bed head out of her eyes. Now that fear had stopped jump-starting her heart, she could feel exhaustion pulling at her eyelids, dragging at her like shackles. The room had lost its threat and abandoned its menace- the pencils and notes lay where they had been abandoned hours ago, tossed atop sloppy sheaths of paper. With one last look around, she turned to go- And the ceiling creaked.

It was a tiny sound, a barely-there groan of wood and insulation and god-knows what else, but it was _there_. Instantly, her panic roared back to life. Her stomach clenched, roiling with suddenly vicious nausea, as she turned her eyes toward the roof above her. _Move_ , some part of her murmured, desperate in its softness. _Run_. Her legs tightened with the urge, but some invisible force had imperceptibly arrested her body and she stood there, barely able to flick her eyes down in time to see something dark and very, _very_ fast flicker outside the window.

The motion jerked her into herself again; she willed her leaden legs into moving, stumbling blindly to the couch for cover. Half formed thoughts were just beginning to swirl in her head, setting off synapses like clusters of fireworks before she could pick a coherent idea out- she had seen it, but had it seen _her_? Jack and his offer came to her, unbidden, as she crouched by the sofa, trying to squeeze of out view. Taking a slow breath, she nervously hunched her shoulders, curling into herself in anticipation of her next move. Unconsciously she had started muttering under her breath: a single phrase over and over in breathlessly whispered Hebrew. The words were spilling out so quickly they had begun crashing into each other, a verbal pileup; but even as she stuttered and choked on the quote, she refused to stop.

“ _The Lord is for me; I shall not fear. What can man do to me?_ ”

(The words hold no truth to her, are as empty as air, but they are the last words she heard in her mother's voice, so she says them anyways. Even if she cannot taste the flavor of their truth, she will not be denied their sweetness.)  

Numbness started to creep into her legs as she hunched there, jabbing her calves with pins and needles as she waited, hesitant to even stretch her neck. She couldn’t stay here forever, she already knew. _Something_ had to be done.

As she re-adjusted to being upright and felt the blood return to her legs, the front door exploded.

More accurately, it was rammed- the hinges _screamed_ as it was slammed form the outside, sending a spray of wood and paint chips in all directions. The door banged into the wall once, hard enough to dent, then swung slowly back, the now-warped hinges making it shake like a wounded animal.

Beyond the crippled doorway, framed by the boundless night sky and the green walls of the forest, was the unmistakable silhouette of Big Sister. The sight of the long shadow that the protector cut across the floor turned Brigid’s blood to ice; the sight alone seemed to consume her so thoroughly that she almost failed to miss to notice the slow steps the figure took into the house. She had barely begun to plan her next step when leather-bound fingers grabbed her arm and _squeezed_ ; the pressure was just shy of pain, yet enough to make her eyes water. Brigid sucked in a breath, trying not to make a sound as the intruder effortlessly heaved her onto the sofa, leaning over her so closely she could see her own reflection in the porthole. The silence between them seemed endless: even though she couldn’t see them Brigid could feel the weight of the Big Sister’s eyes on her through the glass. Transfixed, she watched as the girl’s hands reached up, almost as an afterthought, and carefully began undoing the clasps and catches that held the helmet in place. Her movements were slow, deliberate- Brigid held her breath as the final latch sprung apart, and the human underneath was revealed.

By this point Brigid was so overwhelmed she could understand what she was seeing only in fragments- a lip, an eyebrow, a birthmark. As the moments passed, she began to grasp more of the face before her: glassy yellow eyes, messily sheared curls, a greyish complexion, all clotted with dried blood from old and healing wounds. Despite the residual fear in her chest, Brigid’s heart gave an involuntarily lurch of sympathy.

_Oh, sweetheart._

The silence between them had impossibly thickened. Fighting off the sense of deja vu, Brigid licked her lips and prepared to speak, only to be cut off by an unfamiliar voice, a whisper rough with disuse and dry with panic.

“...Momma?”


	3. Chapter 3

The word knocked her dizzy for a second, squeezed the breath out of her.

_She thinks I’m her mother._

The Big Sister loomed over her expectantly, gangly limbs forming a sort of cage over the shorter woman. One long arm grabbed the cushions over Brigid’s shoulder, another squeezed the armrest tight enough to tear, leaving hardly any room for her to move her legs without bumping grungy leg braces. But as the seconds slipped by and neither party moved, the desperately hopeful expression on the girl’s face started to fall away, sliding down like spit on a wall. Brigid feels herself slipping, too; the situation around her is unraveling faster then she can handle. Those yellow eyes regard her with a greedy intensity, sliding by degrees into naked hostility. Even through the thick fringe of lashes, she can see how the girl’s pupils were blown. They are black holes ringed hazel, framed by sclera stained red with hemorrhage and lids narrowed with fury.  

The sight of those eyes, as wild and desperate and _lost_ as they are, fills her with a terrible guilt: it blankets her, subsumes her rationale, and the knowledge that she’s caused all of this is so powerful and _vicious_ that Brigid finds herself unwillingly reminded of a poem she’d read, ages ago.

_Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair._

In a blur of motion, hard gloved knuckles made crunching contact with her temple. Brigid’s vision flickered, then _plunged_ down a well of blackness and even as low as she felt, she still had it in her to despair.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Brigid hears is the sound of birdsong.

When she sits up, she is greeted by the sight of sunlight sloping through the blinds, warm and clear, with motes of dust twirling in the light. It’s pretty.

The memory of last night, of stumbling through her own home only to be cornered by a hysterical human experiment- seem vague and dreamlike at best, until she tries to roll over, and nearly falls. The sofa (!) isn’t wide enough to support the movement, and as she contemplates this a hot stabbing in her temple brings her hand to the pain. As she clumsily eases off the cushions, she notices the front door- dangling by a single hinge, yet somehow shoved into the frame hard enough to stay shut, even as it failed to stay evenly upright.

So, not a dream then.

Cautious, she stands up, kicking at the still warm quilt and-

 _wait a second_.

Puzzled, she looks down at the blanket. It was on her bed last, she remembered. Almost as an afterthought, the memory of leaving it behind -very much on her bed- to explore the house last night jumps out at her.  Scooping it up automatically, she’d only begun to turn before spotting an unfamiliar white tin on the end table at her left. Without thinking twice she unceremoniously chucked the cover back onto the cushions, already fixated on the unexpected container. Once she picked it up, she couldn’t resist the nostalgic smile that plucked at her lips- it had been so long since she’d seen one of _those_ that she couldn’t help but plop back down on the couch, mystery intruder be damned, and scan the bolded black text decorating the front: _FIRST AID KIT. General purpose_ . Off to the side a cartoony red caduceus was printed and the familiar sight was almost enough to bring her to tears. The box popped open with a pleasant sounding _snick_ , and Brigid was pleased to find it fully stocked- a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol, a slim roll of bandages and, taking up almost half of the available space, a small syringe of medical ADAM. The syringe sloshed gently, a weak glow spilling from the pale gray-blue contents. Something inside her _lurches_ at the sight, at the obvious source of the thing- and she flashes back to the Big Sister once more, catlike eyes reflecting the low light of the night before. 

It's a peace offering, she thinks, though the thought offers little comfort. The tin is heavy and cool in her lap, as immutable as her own shame, and suddenly the texture of it repulses her.

As calmly as possible, Brigid shuts the box.


End file.
